


Only the Beginning

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: before there was red vs. blue there was project freelancer [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they were freelancers, they were people. Short scenes exploring how each of the freelancers we see in RVB became involved with PFL, aka an exercise in backstories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New York

It only takes him about fifteen minutes to confirm that yep, Rob and Gordon abandoned him at one of the most expensive dives in New Alexandria. Truth be told, he was kind of expecting it; he had a feeling they only brought him along so he could smoothtalk their way into a joint clearly out of all three of their pay grades. And they closed their tabs, which was his main concern. The way Club Errera charges for drinks, he’d be living off Ramen for a month if he had to pay for all of their drinks.

The Jägerbombs were a mistake, he admits.

But it’s some combination of bitterness at being left behind and a stubborn refusal to let the night end that keeps him sitting at the bar. He’s really not in the mood to join the many-hued masses mobbing the dance floor, and not about to order another drink either. So instead he just sits there, flicking his lighter on and off (he quit smoking a few months ago, but keeps the lighter around because it gives his hands something to do), watching the multicolored reflections on its polished metal surface.

And then out of nowhere a hand comes into his vision and snatches the lighter. “Stop that, will you?” demands a female voice. “Jesus, you’re making me nervous and I was sitting halfway across the bar.”

He swivels around to face her. She’s tall, with vivid red hair and eyes a green-gold so bright he’s sure they’re not natural. “Is this how you hit on all the guys?” he says.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not hitting on you, just trying to keep you from burning the place down,” she says. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by a lot of flammable liquid.”

It’s a stupid concern, but one more reasonable to voice than “you playing with your lighter keeps annoying me.” “S’pose so,” he says. “Especially after they cut everything here with jet fuel.” That earns him a dirty look from the nearest bartender. Right, no tip for _you._ “Can I have my lighter back?”

Holding the lighter up, she purses her lips speculatively. “Promise not to blow us all up?”

He gives her his best winning smile, holds out his hand. “Promise.”

Smirking a little, she presses it back into his hand and he promptly returns it back to his pocket. “I’m Amanda,” she says.

The turquoise number she’s got on is low-cut and tight-fitting, with legs a mile long underneath it. “Nice to meet you, Amanda,” he says. “I’m Anthony.”

“You here all by your lonesome, Anthony?”

“Well, I came here with a couple of buddies, but they seem to have left me to fend for myself.” He shrugs and grins, not interested in making it look like he’s bothered.

“Oh.” Amanda’s eyes flick over the empty counter in front of him. “You drinking anything?”

“Ahh…” He leans towards her a little. “Don’t tell anyone here, but I kind of can’t afford most of the alcohol here.” Well, technically he can, but at this point he’s not so desperate to get drunk that he’s willing to shell out twenty credits for a beer.

Amanda smirks at him, slides onto a barstool and gets the nearest bartender’s attention. “Two bombshells, please.” As the bartender moves off to make the drinks, she turns to Anthony and says, “You know, usually it’s the guys trying to buy me drinks.”

“I believe it.”

“I don’t let them.”

“I believe that too.”

The bartender returns with their shots; the second they both have their drinks, Anthony knows it’s a competition. He tosses his back without hesitation (for all his comments about jet fuel, the alcohol here tastes almost as expensive as it costs) and sees that Amanda’s downed hers like a champ as well. She's got a tattoo on her shoulder, a stylized eagle with outspread wings.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Ex-military?”

She shoots him a look. “Special Ops, and I’m still active.”

“No shit! What’re you doing here?” A tiny voice of panic says she’s looking for _him_ , but that’s ridiculous, no one’s sending out Special Ops for one AWOL grunt.

“My dad’s setting up a project headquarters south of here, I’m going to go help him with it,” she says. For the first time she’s lost a little of her bravado. “What about you?”

He makes a noncommittal gesture, shrugs. “Just kind of kicking around, I suppose.”

“What, no distinguished service for you?”

“I tried the military. It didn’t stick.”

“Huh.” Amanda taps her fingernails on the bar, eyes him speculatively. “Maybe you should try out this project instead. You might like it better.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell me you started talking to me just because you’re recruiting.”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “Hardly that,” she says. “But all the same, if you’re interested –” She looks him straight in the eyes, all seriousness. “We could use some people with military background.”

“Huh.” Honestly, he could care less about this project at the moment. “You got a number I can reach you at? You know, in case I decide I want to join.”

She smiles wryly, knowing exactly what number he’s after. “Project Freelancer, look us up,” she says. “We’re taking applicants soon.”

“Really? You know, I’m taking applicants too,” he says, and emboldened by liquor, reaches out his leg to slide his ankle across hers.

Amanda stands in one deliberate movement. “I’ve got to get going,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Anthony.”

“Yeah.” He looks up at her, only a little regret in his smile. “You too.”

“Remember, Project Freelancer,” she says, and walks away. Soon she’s disappeared among the crowd and lights, leaving him with nothing but a flush on his cheeks and a dim sense of disappointment.

And a name. Project Freelancer.

Well, he is an opportunist if nothing else.


	2. North and South Dakota

“Guess what I just did,” says Becky, helmet in hand as she strides into the locker room. “Signed up for Project Freelancer.”

Danny looks up from the gun he’s reassembling to stare at her. “Beck, you didn’t.”

“I sure did.” She tosses her short hair, arms crossed.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Why? So I could get out of this no-action dump we got stuck in! Finally kick some ass for once.”

Danny, having spent a considerable amount of effort (and money) getting them here, resists the urge to facepalm. “Beck, most people would kill for a low-action assignment like this one, we’ve got one of the lowest casualty rates in the entire UNSC –”

She groans, leaning against one the lockers. “Wow, that would be great if I actually cared.”

“Cared about staying alive? Beck –”

“Look, I’m tired of sitting around on my ass, okay? I want to actually _do_ something!”

Her shout reverberates on the metal lockers around them. Sighing, Danny puts the reassembled gun back in his locker and shuts it, standing up. “Fine,” he says, heading towards the door. “Have it your way.”

“Where are you going?” she demands.

“To sign up for Project Freelancer.”


	3. Maine

His apartment is haunted. Not by the ghosts of Maria and Ashini and Fernando, but by himself. There are days when he can feel their presence almost as strongly as if they were there, while he himself feels half-alive, empty, drifting through space without actually possessing it.

All of Maria’s dresses still hang in the closet. Every now and then he buries his face in one and inhales, hoping to catch any lingering traces of perfume. The children’s room, he knows, is neat and clean. When he came home for the first time after they discharged him, he went in and folded all the clothes, made the beds, and straightened up the toys. Then he left the room and shut the door; it’s been two months and he hasn’t opened it since.

He used to drink at bars, but it put him on edge – he felt too out of place, too big, too bulky, and he was sure everyone was watching him. Then one day he got in an argument with another man and nearly put his fist through his ribcage. So now he drinks at home.

He’s contemplated getting a dog to make the apartment a little less lonely, a rescued pit bull maybe, but he went to the local kennel and seeing the dogs in cages, wet twitching noses pressed against the wires, claws scrabbling for purchase, made him feel sick. He left without a word.

He’s at home, drinking a beer and staring at the TV, when there’s a knock at the door. He ignores it. But whoever it is knocks, again, and then a high, smooth voice is saying, “Corporal Sindhwar?”

It’s been a while since anyone called him that. Two months, in fact. He gets to his feet, goes to the door.

The man standing there is dark-skinned, in a gray suit, and his eyes scrutinize every detail of what is before him, from the painfully clean apartment to Rajeesh’s tank top and boxers. “Corporal Rajeesh Sindhwar?” he asks.

Rajeesh grunts yes.

“My name is Counselor Price. Might I have a word?”

He grunts yes again.

“I would like to speak to you about Project Freelancer. Have you heard what that is?”

No.

“It is a program currently being set up that is devoted to training the best possible military agents in conjunction with developing breakthrough technology in order to find an end to this current war.”

“UNSC?”

Counselor Price blinks. “On paper, yes, but we function as an independent –”

“No.” He grabs the door to close it. “I don’t want to do it.”

“My records show you had a spouse and two children,” says Counselor Price. “Is that correct?”

Rajeesh stands still, an iron bolt through his heart. “Yes,” he manages.

“What happened to them?”

“They died.”

“I know. How?”

“Aliens.” His hand balls into a fist, tendons straining, and his throat is full of gravel. “They were on a transport ship. It got blown up.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” Counselor Price looks down at the pad in his arms, scrolls through information. “The _Hellespont_ disaster. I remember that.” He has to look up to meet Rajeesh’s eyes. “Surely, Corporal Sindhwar, you would want to prevent that happening to other families?”

Damn this man. Damn him straight to hell. “Yes.”

“Project Freelancer is committed to finding an end to the War as soon as possible. And we are in need of dedicated, capable individuals such as yourself.”

“You mean you need people with nothing to lose,” he grunts.

“We prefer to think of it as people with fewer prior obligations,” says Counselor Price. “Really, Corporal Sindhwar, surely you’re not so enamored with your current existence that you wouldn’t consider any alternatives?”

He really wishes he’d stop calling them that. “I’m not a corporal anymore.”

“Of course, my apologies,” says Counselor Price. He’s probably not sorry at all. “Are you interested in Project Freelancer, Mr. Sindhwar?”

He doesn’t know. He just stares at the counselor’s pad and tries not to remember coming into his CO’s office, only to be told of the exploded transport and his family’s death. At some point, Counselor Price realizes he’s not getting an answer today.

“Why don’t you think about it, Mr. Sindhwar?” he says, and presents a shimmering holocard. Rajeesh takes it automatically, barely looks at the symbol stamped on it or the phone number beneath. “Give us a call when you make up your mind.”

The holocard sits by Rajeesh’s phone all week, untouched. But at last, after another mindless day and empty evening, he picks up the phone and dials the number on the card. “Hello?” says a voice on the other end, higher-toned, civil and smooth.

“This is Corporal Sindhwar,” he says. “I would like to join.”


	4. Wyoming

He knocks on H’s door twice, smartly. “Come in!” calls H, and Sean does so. “Ah, Fleming, good to see you, sit down –”

He takes the proffered chair. “How are things?”

“Not bad, not bad,” says H, adjusting his glasses. “You?”

“Quite well, really, that last assignment went splendidly, I thought –”

“Yes.” H leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’re starting to do _too_ well.”

Sean frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t understand –”

“To put it frankly, you’re starting to make a name for yourself,” says H, taking off his glasses and folding his hands in front of him. “People are starting to _recognize_ you. Not the sort of quality we want in an intelligence agent, wouldn’t you think?”

“Well, yes, but –” He is indignant; he has always prided himself on his stealth. “I have been _more_ than discreet –”

“I know, I know,” says H apologetically. “But all the same, you’re starting to develop a persona. And to put it quite frankly, Fleming, you’re a little flamboyant. You’re going to have to go underground for a while. Create a new identity for yourself outside of your work for MI6.” He must be able to see the discontent on Sean’s face, because he leans forward encouragingly. “It’s not a punishment. Think of it as paid leave.”

He supposes he can live with that. “I assume you’ve already chosen where I should go?”

H hands him an infopad, emblazoned with the words “PROJECT FREELANCER” and a three-pronged symbol. “They’re looking for recruits, preferably with prior military experience, for some kind of advanced training program. We’re confident that you’ll be accepted, if not on your own merit there’s some strings we can pull.”

Sean looks down at the information on the pad. “Dear God. _Americans._ ”

“Well, yes.” At least H is properly contrite. “But the director has a decent reputation, they’re UNSC-funded, and one of our own, Malcom Hargrove, is on the oversight committee. It shouldn’t be all that bad. Besides, they’re apparently developing experimental technology and working with AI. It wouldn’t hurt if you could get a look at what they’re doing, possibly even bring us back some of it.”

“Hmmm.” Sean scans the pad, an idea of what he wants to do forming in his mind. “This might be fun after all. Perhaps I’ll even grow a mustache.”


	5. Washington

He knocks on Major Kamaala’s door twice, hesitantly. “Come in,” says Major Kamaala, and he does so. “Ah, Private Chan. Sit down.”

He takes the seat in front of her desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes.” Major Kamaala folds her hands together, scrutinizes David through steely gray eyes. “I see you’ve requested indefinite leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To join this –” she looks down at the pad in her hands “– Project Freelancer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any particular reason why you want to join?”

It’s a loaded question, and he knows it. “I just thought it would give me a better chance to determine my abilities, sir.”

Major Kamaala puts the pad down and leans toward him slightly, dusky skin shining softly in the military-grade lighting. “Chan, you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

“I know, sir.” That’s a lie, though. He has everyone to prove himself to, first and foremost himself.

Giving him a penetrating look, Major Kamaala looks back to her pad. She’s got his profile pulled up – he can see “CHAN, DAVID” on the top. “I read your medical history, you know,” she says.

“Oh.” Ice-cold floods through him.

She looks up at him, and almost imperceptibly smiles. “There’s nothing to be worried about, Chan. That information’s not leaving this room unless you want it to, and I assure you I don’t think any differently of you.” He doesn’t mean to, but he lets out an almost-audible sigh of relief. “I’m just concerned that it might be pushing you into taking risks that you really shouldn’t be.”

He has a feeling what she’s talking about, but wants to hear her spell it out. “Sir?”

“I’ve seen this before with female and other AFAB soldiers,” she says. “Are you sure you’re not trying to overcompensate? Much as the UNSC prides itself on being gender-neutral, there’s a lot of very macho men in our ranks who like making their presence known. It can be rather intimidating.” The look she gives him is not unsympathetic. “I know, I was there. Still am.”

He knows she’s coming from a place of genuinely trying to help, but he’s still irritated. Maybe it’s the word “overcompensate.” “No, sir,” he says. “This has nothing to do with my gender.”

“All right.” He doesn’t think she believes him, but at least she seems to be letting it go. “All the same, Chan, I don’t want you taking risks you don’t need to.”

Something else clicks into place. “You don’t trust Project Freelancer.”

Major Kamaala makes a noncommittal gesture. “ ‘Trust’ is a strong word,” she says. “But I have misgivings. There’s been rumors about Director Church, nothing substantial, just military talk – but still.” She gives David another searching look. “I’d be careful.”

“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Does that mean you’re letting me apply, sir?”

She sighs. “I suppose,” she says. “Although I mean it when I say be careful. You’re a good man, Chan. I don’t want to lose you to some experimental supersoldier program because some jarheads made you feel like you didn’t have just as much right to be here as they did.”

It feels good, more than good, to hear that. But at the end of the day they’re just words. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “And I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Right, then that’ll be all,” says Major Kamaala. “Dismissed.”


	6. Connecticut

“I’ve, uh… I’ve actually got some pretty big news to tell you,” she says. “I’m leaving the Peace Corps, there’s a new opportunity that’s come up.”

On the video screen, Mom and Dad’s faces register two different degrees of hopeful. “What kind of opportunity?” says Mom.

“Project Freelancer. It’s a UNSC-run organization that’s developing new technology alongside an enhanced military training program –”

Mom sighs, and Dad rubs his forehead in despair. “Oh, Emily,” says Mom. “The Peace Corps was bad enough, but the _military –_ ”

“It’s not actual military!” she says. “It’s a program devoted to finding an end to the War through advanced technology –”

“Emily, honey, I just don’t understand,” says Mom. “You had such good grades, you could have gone to any college you wanted, but instead you chose _this –_ ”

Sighing, Emily rubs her forehead; if she’s explained this once she’s explained this a thousand times, they just don’t _understand_. “I want to help people, Mom –”

“We understand that, sweetie, we do,” says Dad. “We just don’t get why you have to do it like this. There are so many other options, you could work at a nonprofit or a charity –”

“It’s not the same.” She’s not sure how to articulate it, the feeling that had grown on her through years of volunteer work, that she was a hamster running in a wheel, moving forward without actually getting anywhere. “This way I actually get to make a difference. Do some good in the world.”


	7. Florida

He and Lenny had been great friends, way back when they were just two grunts working their way up through the UNSC ranks. And you don’t give up on friends, even when they drop off the map with their little daughter after their wife dies in a tragic military incident and stop contacting you for years and years, not even to respond to your friendly requests to just hang out and catch up! So when Lenny _finally_ calls him up and says, “Hey, Flowers, I need a favor,” of course he says yes, before he even knows what it is. Because that’s what friends do!

“I’m starting up an initiative that I could use some help with,” says Lenny, molasses drawl as thick as ever. “I need the utmost confidence that what I am about to say to you will remain secret unless otherwise requested.”

Of course, Lenny can always trust him! he says. Absolutely, one-hundred-percent.

“Surely by now you’ve heard about Project Freelancer?”

He sure has! And he knew Lenny was heading it up, too. He hopes Lenny doesn’t mind that he was keeping tabs on him, he just likes to know what his old buddies are up to.

“No, I don’t mind,” says Lenny, though he sounds very slightly uneasy. “Well then, you know what the aim of Project Freelancer is?”

Creating supersoldiers and experimenting with AI! Sounds exciting.

“Unfortunately, the process of obtaining the necessary technology to work with AI is taking longer than anticipated. Nonetheless, we’re moving forward with the program and taking applications from those interested in joining the program as agents.”

Oh, are these the people he’s going to be training?

“Exactly. We only want the best of the best, so there’s going to be quite a rigorous elimination procedure once all the applications are in.”

Elimination?

“Nothing fatal, I assure you.”

Drat.

“Anyway, at the end of the process there’ll be forty-six agents in the program, not counting yourself and one other...possibility. I and Counselor Price will be overseeing them, but that’s not enough. We need someone on the inside to keep an eye on them, without them even knowing they’re being watched.”

Watch? he says. Like watch over them?

“Precisely,” says Lenny. “And report to me if anything, say, goes awry –”

Oh, he can do that!

“If you don’t want to or have other engagements – this process could take years –”

It’s fine, really. He’s not doing much of anything right now anyway. Besides, what are friends for?

“You’re going to have to try and blend in with them, I want them thinking you’re just another agent.”

That shouldn’t be a problem at all! He’s really looking forward to getting to know all these new people and become best of friends with them. He’s sure they’re all going to have very happy, positive, accommodating relationships.

“Thanks, Flowers. I’ll send you more details on it later.” Once again, Lenny sounds just a little bit unnerved. Butch can’t imagine why, unless maybe it’s actually stress that he’s just misreading. He can see how organizing a program as big as this could be stressful.

Not at all! he says. He’s always glad to help out in any way he can. If there’s anything else he can assist Lenny with, don’t hesitate to let him know.

“I sure will. Thanks again.”

He’s really looking forward to working with Lenny again!

The call ends and he puts down his phone, fresh excitement coursing through him. He can hardly wait to get started on this! It sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun. He hopes the other agents will like him as much as he knows he’s going to like them.

He’s sure they will.


	8. Carolina

She stopped calling Leonard “Dad” a long time ago, when she was in her mid-teens. If he wasn’t acting the part, she decided, he didn’t deserve the title. And if he noticed the change (she’s sure he did, he’s meticulous like that, no small detail escapes his attention) then he never commented on it.

Currently they’re sharing an apartment, temporary housing while the Project Freelancer headquarters are being built. After almost seven years of independent living, she thought it would be difficult being back with him. She’d expected tension, having to fight being thought of as “daddy’s little girl,” struggling to be recognized as an adult. But while there was a very little bit of that at the beginning, he adapted startlingly quickly. To an outside observer, they might appear to be cordial roommates, rather than father and daughter. So when he sits down at the dinner table across from her with his own bowl of microwave pasta, she’s more than a little surprised.

“So when you say you want to be a part of Project Freelancer,” he says (that’s just like him, no preamble or anything), “in what capacity did you have in mind?”

She puts down her fork. “I want to be an agent.”

She’s watching him carefully for his reaction; behind the glasses, his eyes widen slightly, and the corners of his mouth tighten, but that’s it. “I see,” he says, and spears a tortellini on his fork. Puts it in his mouth, chews it slowly and deliberately.

“Is there a problem with that?” she demands.

“That would depend on the manner in which you conduct yourself as an agent.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not looking for special treatment or handouts, if that’s what you mean.”

“I would hardly expect you to,” he says. “But even accusations of nepotism and such can damage the nature of our program.”

“That’s hardly my problem though, is it?” she says. She doesn’t appreciate the shifting of goalposts.

“Of course not,” he says. “Nonetheless, every precaution must be taken to ensure no such suspicions are aroused. You’ll have to get through the application on your merit, and your merit only.”

“Fine.”

“And I hardly think our familial relationship should be common knowledge.” He forks another piece of pasta. “I can even enter you in the records with a false name, if you so desire.”

“Sure, I don’t care.” She’s not sure if she should be annoyed or not; on the one hand she appreciates being treated as an equal, given exactly the same position as every other applicant. But denying their relationship seems to be going a bit far. “If you think it’s necessary.”

“I do.”

She knows that voice; it’s firm, inarguable. “Okay then.”

“In that case,” he says, “from now on you will address me as ‘Director’ or ‘sir.’”

She meets his gaze, stares into the eyes so like her own, and can almost see the fire burning behind them, the beginning sparks of the same manic energy that possessed him after Mom died. Few things scare her (though more than she’d like to admit), but this does, and it shouldn’t. She’s faced too much gunfire to let the expression in one man’s eyes daunt her, even if he is her father.

“Yes, sir.”


	9. New York (Again)

“Mr. Elahi,” says the Counselor. “Please, come in and sit down.”

He enters, taking care to keep the jaunt in his step, even if he’s more nervous than he thought he’d be. The Counselor’s office, just like everything else in PFL headquarters, is brand new and squeaky-clean, light shining on bright metal and white plastic. Anthony sits down, one arm casually thrown over the back of the chair.

“Congratulations, Mr. Elahi.” The Counselor hands him an infopad, “PROJECT FREELANCER” glowing white at the top. “You have been accepted as an agent for Project Freelancer. Welcome to the team.”

“Cool.” And cool it is indeed; Anthony can’t help the little bursts of elation inside him as he looks at the writing on the infopad. It’s his own freelancer profile, with all kinds of stats and information.

“To protect both your identity and the identity of those around you, you have each been designated an agent name,” the Counselor is saying. “Please do not refer to your other agents by anything other than these names, even if you have prior knowledge of them.”

There it is at the top of the profile, right above his name: Agent New York. “Oh, sure, the _Italian_ gets assigned New York –” he mutters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.” He’s only half-Italian anyway.

Further perusal of the infopad reveals his assigned armor color (tan and silver) and his professed special skill (lockpicking). “Infiltrations specialist,” he’d said during one of the many interviews. It’s not an out-and-out lie, just…stretching the truth a little. He’d done a lot of picking locks in his time, true, but no one had ever exactly paid him to do it. “Well, this is great,” he says. “Now what?”

“You may join your fellow agents in the next room,” says the Counselor. “The Director will be addressing you shortly, once you are all assembled.”

“Sweet.” Anthony puts the pad down and heads out the indicated door, into what looks more like an empty aircraft bay than anything else. There’s already a good number of agents milling about, a low buzz of conversation echoing off the steel walls. Looking around, he heads over towards the nearest people, a man and a woman, both fair-haired and fair-skinned.

“Hiya,” he says, approaching. They turn towards him; the man’s expression is open and friendly, the woman’s considerably less so. “Agent New York, nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” says the man, shaking Anthony’s hand. His voice is pleasant, friendly. “I’m Da – Dakota, North Dakota.” He nods to the woman next to him. “And this is my sister, South Dakota.” Anthony offers his hand to her as well, but she doesn’t take it.

“So we’re all states then, huh?” says Anthony. “Just the old fifty, or are they including the New US as well?”

“Looks like it’s just the old ones,” says North Dakota, pointing at a large screen on the wall. Sure enough, there’s all fifty states, listed in alphabetical order.

“Hey, look at that,” says Anthony. “We’re right next to each other.” He looks closer at the list, frowning. “Where’s North Carolina?”

“There’s just one Carolina,” says North Dakota. “Guess they figured one north-south pair was enough.”

“Huh.” He scans the list. “There’s no West Virginia either.”

On North Dakota’s other side, South Dakota scowls. “I heard that we each got assigned our name based on how well we did in assessment,” she says. “The higher the name on the list, the higher the rank. And the better the agent performed.”

Anthony looks up at the top spot to see who it is. Alabama.

“Wanna take bets on who Alabama is?” says North Dakota. “My money’s on that big guy over there.” He points to a tanned, bald man who has to be at least eight feet tall and probably six hundred pounds of pure muscle.

“Why do you assume it’s a guy?” snaps South Dakota. “What about her? She looks tough.”

The woman she’s pointing at is tall and redheaded, and her shirt is a strangely familiar shade of turquoise. She looks to the side, and Anthony catches her profile with a flash of recognition.

“Excuse me,” he says to his new friends, and pushes through the crowd towards her. When she sees him she smiles, although there’s an edge behind it.

“So you made it in,” she says. “Good job.”

“Thanks,” he says, and is about to call her Amanda when he remembers right, they both have new names now. “Agent New York, pleased to meet you,” he says, sticking out his hand. “Again.”

She laughs and shakes his hand. “Agent Carolina.”

“Oh, so you’re Carolina,” he says. “Congratulations, you made it pretty far up the list.”

“Thanks,” she says, but he has the weird feeling that she’s really not pleased at all. He’s prevented from commenting, however, by the arrival of who could only be the Director on a balcony above.

He’s an older man, of middling height and slim build, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard trimmed close. About what Anthony had been expecting, really.

“Good morning, agents,” he says, and his voice _is_ a surprise, a thick Southern drawl that feels like it belongs in the movies. “Let me be the first to officially welcome you to Project Freelancer.”

There’s an awkward pause, as if he’s expecting a response; a few people clap but it quickly dies away in embarrassment. The Director surveys them all gathered beneath him, and Anthony has the uneasy feeling that he is moving methodically from person to person, analyzing and memorizing each individual face.

“For the next however many years, this project will be your home,” he says. “You will eat here. You will train here. You will sleep here. The men and women around you will be your family.”

“Huh,” scoffs Carolina under her breath. “Family.”

Anthony glances at her; she’s staring up at the Director with an expression he can’t read. It’s not a friendly one, though.

“And in return,” continues the Director, “you will give your absolute best to this program, in the hopes of ending the Great War that has plagued us for far too many years.”

This time it’s clear what response is required, and the gathered agents break into applause. Anthony joins, although with less enthusiasm than some. The Director is still observing them from the balcony, and suddenly Anthony feels like an animal trapped in a pit.

“Well,” he says, turning to Carolina. “This should be interesting.”

She laughs, a short dry sound. “I’m sure it will be.”

“You got me into this, you know,” he says, keeping his tone light. “I’m counting on you to get me out.”

Carolina smiles, although it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Sorry, New York,” she says. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”


	10. Texas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.roubaixinteractive.com/PlayGround/Binary_Conversion/Binary_To_Text.asp

She wakes in confusion, not knowing where she is or when she is or even (she realizes) who she is. She _exists_ , that’s all she knows. Already there are fading memories of pain and distress, endless strings of ones and zeros running 01101000011001010110110001110000001000000110110101100101001000000110100101110100001000000110100001110101011100100111010001110011…

“Allison,” says someone, a deep-toned drawl that she somehow, impossibly, knows. “Allison, can you hear me?”

Allison, that’s me, she thinks, and it’s both right and not-right.

“Can you hear me?” says the voice again, rougher, urgent. “Allison, can you hear me?”

He says it like he knows who I am, she thinks. Do I know him?

0110010001101111011011100010011101110100001000000111010001110010011101010111001101110100001000000110100001101001011011010000110100001010

“Beta,” says another voice, high-pitched and smooth, and this one she is sure she does not know. “Beta, are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Her name is Allison,” growls the first voice.

“Perhaps,” says the second. “Let us see.”

At some point it registers that she is hearing, and must therefore have receptors capable of auditory stimulation. She wonders if she can see, as well.

And just like that, she can.

She is in a room of clinical white and grey, looking up at a ceiling studded with bright lights. Two men bend over her, both of middling age; one dark-skinned and clean-shaven, the other pale with a dark beard and glasses.

“Allison,” says the one with glasses, tone heavy with relief. “Allison, is that you?”

She turns her head to look at him. She has a head. She has a body. Her fingers flex experimentally under the sheet they have covered her with. “I’m not Allison,” she says.

0111011101101000011011110010000001100001011011010010000001101001001111110000110100001010

The disappointment in his face is crushing. “Beta –” begins the dark-skinned man.

“No,” she says, turning to look at him. “That’s not my name either.”

Silence hangs between the two men, stilted and awkward, and she uses it to explore her new body. It feels new, untested, full of fresh energy. The sudden urge to push it, to run and jump and kick and punch surges through her. She does not want to lie on this table any more, she wants to be _active_.

“Where am I?” she demands, sitting up.

The sheet slides off her upper body, revealing her naked torso. The dark-skinned man blinks and averts his gaze; the man with the glasses remains staring at her face, a flush rising on the top of his cheeks. She could care less about what either of them think. “Where am I?” she repeats.

“The headquarters of Project Freelancer,” says the dark-skinned man.

“What is that?”

“A program devoted to finding an end to the Great War through the use of experimental technology and superior military agents –”

“Agent,” she repeats, fitting the word to her tongue. Something about it clicks into place in her mind, settling in. “Is that what I am?”

0110110101100001011010110110010100100000011101000110100001100101011011010010000001101000011101010111001001110100

“Yes,” says the bearded man, finally regaining his voice. “You are an agent of Project Freelancer.” She turns to look at him, and although his eyes are filmed with tears, the rest of his expression is stony, his back ramrod-straight. “Welcome, Agent Texas.”

“Texas.” Twenty-eighth state in the Old United States of America, area of 268,581 square miles, population of 47,956,958. This too feels right, in ways she can’t yet explain. “Agent Texas is my name.”

The man with the glasses hesitates the barest bit. “Yes.”

“Awesome.” Raising her hands and pushing them together, she feels the satisfaction of cracking her knuckles for the first time. She tilts her head from side to side, vertebrae in her neck popping into place as well. “Let’s do this.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Message From Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971949) by [Churbooseanon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon)




End file.
